'We will, of course, have him washed completely before his family-'
'Don't,' said Rostnikov, moving to the foot of the table to examine the corpse's feet and legs.
'Don't…?'
'Leave the body as it is,' Rostnikov said softly. 'Where are his clothes, the ones he was wearing?'
That Dr. Vostov did not know. He had to summon an aide, a very tall blond man with an enormous nose, who summoned an assistant, a woman with very thick glasses, who acted as if they had interrupted her in the middle of sex, which was highly unlikely, or food, which was a far greater possibility.
'He died peacefully,' Vostov said with a little laugh as they waited, a laugh that was intended to convey that the policeman, who had asked that the body not be touched, was inappropriately thinking like a policeman, that Dr. Vostov had seen far more of death and knew it well and professionally.
'Where was he?' Rostnikov said, covering Georgi Vasilievich's face with the sheet. 'Where was he found?'
'On a wooden deck chair facing the sea,' Vostov said, pointing upward. 'He must have gotten up early. Many of our patients have difficulty sleeping.'
'Did anyone see him on the deck before his body was found?' asked Rostnikov. He was moving around the room now, slowly.
'No. You mean when he went out? No. He was found very early, and our-'
Vostov was cut short by the appearance of the woman with thick glasses, who dropped a duffel-bag-sized yellow plastic bag on an empty cart and walked out without a word.
'May I ask what you are looking for, Comrade Inspector?' Vostov asked, moving around to watch the policeman open the yellow bag and remove trousers, jacket, shirt, underwear, sox, and shoes, all of which he examined carefully as they spoke.
'You may.'
'Then I'm asking,' said Vostov, considering now the possibility that this barrel of a policeman was a bit dimwitted.
Rostnikov dropped the clothes back in the yellow bag.
'I want you to lock this bag someplace safe,' said Rostnikov. 'You will be held personally responsible. Then I want an autopsy.'
Dr. Vostov could not control his sigh of exasperation. Less than a year ago one would not have dared to show exasperation with the police, but this was a new era that had touched even the Crimea.
'But, Inspector,' he said as Rostnikov handed him the bag and moved to the door through which they had entered. 'People die here almost every day. If we took the time to perform pathology-'
'He was murdered,' said Rostnikov. 'Please take me to his room.'
'Murdered? No, no, no. He had a heart attack. I…' Dr. Vostov moved in front of Rostnikov to face him. Rostnikov stopped and looked at the doctor patiently.
'There is dirt on the palms of both of Georgi Vasilievich's hands,' Rostnikov explained as people passed them in the corridor. 'That same dirt is on the knees of his trousers. It is not on his face. It is not on his shirt or jacket. When I saw him last night, shook his hand, it was clean, his pants were clean. At some point between the time he left my hotel and the time he was found dead, Vasilievich knelt on the ground with his palms in the dirt. Why would he do that?'
Dr. Vostov pondered the question and tried to come up with an answer, but he had none.
'That doesn't-' he began.
'There is also dirt on the back of his right hand and the knuckle of that hand-'
'He had arthritis,' Dr. Vostov almost pleaded.
'The knuckle is broken on his middle finger,' said Rostnikov.
'Broken?'
'Someone made Georgi Vasilievich kneel, put his hands out and his head down, and then they stepped on his hand. Take me to his room.'
Dr. Vostov shook his head as if this were simply all wrong, as if, given a few moments, he could explain it all. He began walking to the stairway and then up.
'Why would anyone do that?' Vostov asked.
'To get him to tell them something,' said Rostnikov, doing his best to keep up with the doctor, who now seemed to be in quite a hurry.
'Wait, wait. You mean some gang, kids, bums… Maybe they were just… maybe robbery, beating for fun,' Vostov said. 'It happens. Even here it happens.
Kids from the city on vacation with their parents. Bored. Picking on the old people, the sick people,' he went on, trying to keep the conversation quiet.
'They didn't take his wallet and money, and they brought him back to the sanitarium. Not kids, not bums. They broke only one knuckle,' Rostnikov said.
'There isn't another bruise on his body. They tried pain and decided it wouldn't work. He wouldn't tell them. Then they killed him.'
They were on the second floor now, moving down the corridor past curious patients, nurses, and cleaning staff.
'What did they want?' Vostov said. 'No, no. With all respect, Inspector. I think … You know, sometimes professional people come for a vacation or treatment here, and miss their work. Architects see design, structural defects, in the hotels. Factory managers see inefficient management. That kind of thing. It's understandable. May I suggest-and I don't want to sound… I mean, the seawater and whirlpool baths would help your leg.'
Vostov stopped in front of a door when they reached the end of the corridor. He shook his head and pushed the door open.
There was not much inside the small room, a metal clothes locker whose door stood slightly open, a chest with three drawers, all slightly open, a bed. On the wall there was the reproduction of a Cezanne harbor.
Rostnikov walked to the chest of drawers, opened them, and then closed each one.
He moved to the closet, then the bed, and finally moved to the center of the room to simply stand with his hands folded in front of him and look around. He stood for more than a minute without speaking.
'Inspector…' Vostov began, looking around at the room. This was now well beyond him. 'I must get back to my patients.'
'Someone searched this room and tried to make it look as if he or she did not,' said Rostnikov, so softly that Dr. Vostov moved closer to catch a few words.
'What was that?' Vostov said.
'Nothing,' answered Rostnikov, opening a drawer. The clothes were just slightly disheveled, the way a man living alone might throw them in a drawer, but Georgi Vasilievich was a humorless man who lived an ordered life, who would not tolerate a wrinkle in his bed covers or conversation.
Vostov was quite convinced now that the block of a man before him was one of the many who visited Yalta because they had suffered what the Americans called a 'nervous breakdown.' People being murdered, their rooms searched without a sign.
It was nonsense.
'What were they looking for?' asked Vostov, as if he were humoring a small child.
'I don't know,' said the policeman, 'but I will find out. An autopsy now, Dr.
Vostov, please.'
'I don't think…' Vostov began, but Rostnikov turned, and their eyes met. 'There is no reason, and the family might not-' ' 'Georgi Vasilievich had no family. His wife is dead. They had no children. Are you a married man, Doctor?' asked the inspector.
'Yes, bull…'
'Children?'
'One,' said Vostov.
'Girl or boy?'
'Girl… woman,' said Vostov. 'She's thirty-five years old.'
'Grandchildren?'
'Two,' said Vostov.
